“Take the wheel. I’m going to go in. Make sure our man is there.”
“Don’t make a scene.”
“If the opportunity presents itself, I’m not going to let him get away. The matter is time-sensitive. That stiletto of yours goes in real easy. A little poke through the ribs, nick his heart. The man will be dead before he knows what got him.”
The Mole slipped his knife from its sheath on his calf. “Make it quick.”
Shanks slid the blade up his sleeve. “Lightning.”
–
Tank sat on his favorite stool and raised a hand. “Long day, Pedrito,” he called. “Una cerveza, por favor.”
He’d made it through a day without a drink. Or almost a day-not that anyone was counting. If Mary Grant didn’t want him investigating, that was fine by him. He could take his time, dig up more evidence about what Edward Mason and Don Bennett were covering up. Good stories required patience. How long had Woodward and Bernstein needed for Watergate? A year? Two?
Pedro set a bottle of Tecate on the bar and poured a generous shot of tequila, the amber liquid overflowing the edges. “Throwback Thursday, man. You forget to bring your jersey?”
“Left it at home.”
“No one’s going to know who you are without it.”
“Thanks,” said Tank, wrapping his fingers around the beer. “Appreciate the vote of confidence.”
“Got you something,” said Pedro.
“A bottle of La Familia?”
“Nah. Something we were talking about.” Pedro reached beneath the bar and came out with a braided leather quirt. “Not exactly a buggy whip, but pretty close. It’s yours. Help you figure out what to do now that you’re not a journalist anymore.”
Before Tank could respond, Pedro left to help another customer. Tank set the riding crop on the counter and lifted the beer to his lips. Who said he wasn’t a journalist anymore? Al Soletano? Mary Grant? Edward Mason?
If you’re a journalist, what are you doing in Pedro’s?
Tank looked at the crop. A journalist tracks down sources and gathers evidence. He digs out the truth, no matter how cleverly it’s hidden. He doesn’t give up until he has his story. A journalist has a sacred obligation to the truth.
Once he’d believed all that garbage.
And now?
He ran his fingers along the crop, waiting for an answer.
–
Shanks slipped into Pedro’s through the back entrance. The dining room was dimly lit and he needed a few moments for his eyes to adjust. The first thing he noticed was the colorful plastic fish hanging from the ceiling. Then the velvet paintings of Hispanic stars. Real class. Only a few tables were occupied. None of the diners matched Potter’s description.
A din was coming from the bar area. He crossed the room and ducked his head around the corner. The place was a madhouse. Students, young professionals, even a few oldsters. Many wore dated clothing and sported old-school hairstyles. He noticed a sign advertising THROWBACK THURSDAY and BEERS $1.
Shanks edged his way through the crowd, keeping low, eyes scanning the faces. He was intent on finding Potter. This was his chance. He didn’t have the gift like the Mole. He wasn’t an electrical engineer or a code pounder, or in any way technically gifted. He hadn’t gone to Harvard or MIT. But he wasn’t dumb.
William Henry McNair-Shanks to his friends-was a proud graduate of King College Prep on Drexel Boulevard in Chicago. And not just a graduate, an honors graduate. His diploma had the words cum laude printed right below his name. With distinction. That didn’t matter much when your mother was loaded all day and your father was doing time in Joliet. No one in his family had even thought about college.
Shanks didn’t want to follow his brothers onto the street. He was a good kid, with only two smears on his rap sheet. The day after graduation he was on a bus to Parris Island, South Carolina. The Marine Corps Recruit Depot. He saw action in Iraq, made sergeant in three years, and was offered a slot in Officer Candidate School. By then, though, the headaches had begun, and he decided he’d had enough of the Corps. While he liked the idea of getting his butterbars just fine, the prospect of earning $100K a year was more appealing, and that was what his brother had promised.
His brother had lied. Instead of $100K, he got a ten-year sentence for armed robbery. He served six, but six was more than enough. Shanks was done working with thieves. He liked having a real job with a real company with a real salary and real benefits. As of this fine day he was pulling down ninety-four grand a year, with health, dental, and a 10 percent kicker to his 401(k). He aimed to keep it that way.
It was lighter in the bar area and he had a good view of everyone’s face. He made a circuit of the room, keeping his eyes peeled for a tall, shaggy guy with drooping cheeks and sad eyes. He saw no one, and after double-checking the dining room, he made a second tour of the bar. There was a single unoccupied stool. A $10 bill was tucked beneath a full bottle of beer on the counter. Whoever had left the money had left a shot of tequila, too.
And something else. A fancy braided leather riding crop.
Where in the world was Tank Potter?
Shanks hurried out the front entrance.
The Jeep was gone.
–
“Get out of my seat.”
Shanks slammed the door and handed back the stiletto.
“You missed him.”
“He left.”
The Mole moved to the work bay and took his place at the console. “Briggs is going to be pissed when he finds out you let him get away.”
“I told you, he left,” said Shanks. “Anyway, we have another nail to take care of. You know how to get to Buda?”
52
Time to make money.
Carlos Cantu hurried in from his car and ran upstairs to his bedroom. He couldn’t believe it was already six and he was only now getting home. Buda was a good thirty miles south of Austin, and this evening traffic had been snarled owing to an overturned fertilizer truck.
Carlos threw off his sweat-stained scrubs and jumped under the shower, keeping the water on full cold, which at this time of year was no better than 80°. As he washed, he thought of only one thing. Money. He wanted $35,000 for the watch. Not a penny less.
Finished showering, he dressed in shorts and a Longhorns T-shirt, then opened his nightstand and picked up the evidence bag containing the Patek Philippe watch he’d lifted yesterday. Now that he was clean, he tried it on. The gold sparkled dully. The second hand swept smoothly across an ivory guilloche face. The crocodile strap complemented his skin.
Carlos returned the watch to the evidence bag for safekeeping. If it weren’t worth so much, he’d be tempted to keep it for himself. But $35,000 would go a long way. It would pay off his mother’s medical bills, help his sister with college, and, hopefully, leave enough to buy himself a new car.
He didn’t like stealing from the dead. He preferred to look at his action more as “purposeful misplacement.” Things got lost all the time between the crime scene, the hospital, and the morgue. If they happened to find a way into his pocket, all the better.
–
Downstairs, he set up camp in the dining room. A coffee and a frozen Snickers bar counted as dinner. He logged onto eBay. At the moment he had a single auction running. A photograph of the Patek Philippe watch filled the screen. He’d received three bids so far, all for well below his asking price. He checked the bidders’ identifications. Two were watch dealers in Florida. The third was a private individual in Seattle. All of them seemed legit. He frowned. He wouldn’t accept less than thirty. Thirty was the magic number.